Cliché
by World'sOnlyConsultingTimeLady
Summary: Sherlock Holmes doesn't do emotional confessions; however, when he chickens out of telling John how he feels before boarding the plane, he immediately regrets it. When the plane turns around, he resolves to tell John anyway, no matter the consequences. Because regret is a far more potent poison than rejection. Johnlock. Gift for RainyDays-and-DayDreams


**This is a gift for the wonderful RainyDays-and-DayDreams. This idea kinda diverges from what we originally talked about, but I hope you like it all the same. **

**Your Piper fic is under development and will turn out better than this has.**

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It was with great reluctance that Sherlock boarded the plane. Every step he took ached with everything in him, the distance increasing with every second, with every flutter of his all too human heart, between him and John. The man he was in love with; the man who put his lying wife and unborn child before him, the detective who'd healed his limp and given him the life he'd always craved. A life that they both knew would be no more.

Sherlock Holmes didn't regret shooting (and killing) Charles Augustus Magnusson. Did he regret his flawed plans, his lack of tact in seeking to eradicate the businessman's threat? Absolutely. How, though, could he possibly regret eliminating the man that threatened John's happiness?

He knew he was going to his death, knew that he wasn't ever going to see John again, yet he couldn't tell the army doctor how he felt. Not when Mary stood mere feet away, in her bright red coat that brought back memories of the night they'd met, when the detective had seen the villainous signs but hadn't connected them. Not when the person who could offer John the life he wanted stood mere feet away; not when the words that ate away at his dignity, his pride, his sanity, would pollute his doctor's happiness.

Of course, Sherlock knew that he was John's best bet at happiness, but John hadn't chosen Mary over Sherlock ignorantly. The army doctor knew what he was doing, knew that no one understood him like the detective. It hadn't mattered, though, that Sherlock cared about him over everyone else. The sacrifices Sherlock had made for John didn't register with him, weren't seen for what they were, much less acknowledged.

People rarely chose what they need, though; they only chose what they wanted. They'd whine about it until they possessed the coveted thing and realized that it wasn't enough, wasn't satisfactory, and John was no different. When John understood that his noble deed, like many before it, would not go unpunished, would understand the err of his ways, he'd want nothing more than to return to the way life had been before Mary, before the fall. It would be too late of course; by then, Sherlock would be dead. Sherlock would cease to exist, and John would be trapped in a toxic relationship by the heavy chains of morality.

How dull. How perfectly ordinary.

It was fitting that the man who loathed the ordinary would be choked to death by it.

Sherlock allowed himself a moment of petulant victory as he stared out the window at the man in question, though the internal celebration was quickly crushed by the remainder of his painfully real emotions. It was worth it though, killing Magnusson, tarnishing his name yet again for the sake of his blogger. Sherlock had tarnished his dignity yet again for the most brutally oblivious human in the world.

Tears stung his eyes, and he let them fall, loathing every second of his weakness, but at the same time craving it, basking in the ability to fully process his toxic error. It was the final moment of weakness, Sherlock vowed, of his final trip. No more tears would be shed, no matter how horrid the circumstances.

It was the final mourning of John Hamish Watson, of all the unfulfilled opportunities.

The moment was coming to a close when Mycroft's call interrupted, ceasing his mourning altogether as the plane began to turn around. Sherlock could barely think, barely breathe as the implications of such actions dawned on him.

It was not the end of John and Sherlock, the detective and his blogger. He'd said the game was never finished before boarding the plane, though that hadn't been entirely truthful, not for both men. They knew that, while John possessed the ability to move on, if not entirely, Sherlock couldn't, period. For Sherlock, it was the best time of his life, and it was fated to never truly end. John would be a driving force in Sherlock's life until his final breath. So much hadn't been said at their final talk, so much that he hadn't realized needed to be said until Sherlock realized that the words were never to be vocalized.

The plane collided with the ground, jerking Sherlock in his seat, though his mind was a million miles away, chaotic with fervent desperation. In that moment, the detective knew what he had to do, knew that regardless of how his advances were handled, he needed to act on his sentiment.

Regret was a far more potent poison than rejection.

The plane slowed to a stop after an eternity of movement. Sherlock flew from his seat and out of the plane, racing down the steep stairs only to collide with a warm, sturdy mass of limbs. Disoriented by adrenaline and gut-wrenching determination, the detective didn't register that he'd collided with the object of his affection for a few seconds.

He felt a flush of embarrassment ignite his face, but he ignored the uncomfortable sensation in favor of analyzing the man underneath him, the very vocally heterosexual man lying beneath him without the slightest protest, without extreme signs of discomfort. There was no speaking as the two stared at the other, chests heaving wildly, the only movement either of them made.

It was then that Sherlock realized John felt the same. It was then that Sherlock put the pieces together, saw every questionable moment they'd ever experienced flash before his eyes, each confirming what he saw in his doctor's eyes as he stared into them, the gorgeous sky blues only shining with mind-numbing relief and affection. Moriarty was the farthest thing from either of their minds as they simultaneously understood the other, simultaneously understood that their suppressed emotions were far from unrequited.

Before Sherlock could move, John clasped his head and gently pulled it down, pausing when their lips were inches away from each other. There was a moment of hesitation, a moment of bated breath and _oh God what if I was wrong-_

With a low growl of frustration, John pushed upward, pressing their lips together with heated urgency, a shared desperation that sent Sherlock into a frenzy. Ignoring everything around them, the wrong spouse and overbearing brother and returning villain, the detective focused entirely on his doctor as he smiled into their kiss and pressed closer.

"Get up," A rough voice demanded, one he'd never heard before, and suddenly Sherlock wasn't staring down at his love.

No, the detective was anywhere but London. His mind was scattered, clinging to the remnants of the dream with everything in him. Bright light burned into his eyes as he blinked furiously, the dream involuntarily slipping away with every passing second of awareness.

Rough hands forced Sherlock upward, lifting him away from the grey floor and into a new, brighter room. Shoved onto a cold, steel table, Sherlock thrashed weakly against their grasp as they secured him to the frosty surface, tight leather straps painfully digging into his bloodied and bruised skin.

"Did you miss me?" A lilting voice inquired. "Pity, because I didn't miss you. You're so pathetically _weak," _A familiar man sneered, though Sherlock couldn't recognize him. He knew it was important, but he found himself submerged into apathy, exhausted by forces he couldn't remember.

"Your heart is nothing but ashes now, and so shall you be. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust."

Something pricked into Sherlock's skin, igniting his blood as the substance sent the detective into a quivering mass. Excruciating pain eradicated nearly all remaining logic as he fought against the sensation hopelessly, wildly.

"Now, my pet, I have no more use for you. Killing Magnusson, that was helpful, but now you're useless. A boring death for a boring man; how fitting." The voice paused as the flames faltered within Sherlock, momentarily painless before everything went black, then bright.

How cliché, Sherlock thought as the light faded, revealing a single, short, male silhouette.

How perfectly cliché.


End file.
